


Out of Measure

by Suzelle



Series: Blades and Bucklers [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: An overwrite of That Scene, Eventual The Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Inquisitor & Dorian Pavus Friendship, No but really, Queer Cassandra, Swordfighting, Useless Lesbians, Warrior Lavellan - Freeform, so useless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:27:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26071897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzelle/pseuds/Suzelle
Summary: “Faith is trust, Inquisitor, more than it is anything else. If you cannot trust the Maker or your gods, trust in yourself. Trust in me. Whether Andraste put you on this path or not, I believe you have the will to see us through this. And I do not give my faith lightly.”
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast, Female Lavellan/Cassandra Pentaghast
Series: Blades and Bucklers [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914196
Comments: 7
Kudos: 63





	Out of Measure

**Author's Note:**

> Finally wrote the Cassandra/Lavellan fic of my dreams, babeeyyyyyyy. With thanks to the friends who encouraged me to indulge my gayest self, and to Salvage, always. 
> 
> Featuring Shohreh Lavellan; Dalish warrior, would rather make jokes than indulge in emotions, extremely competent with a sword that's approximately her height.

Restlessness so often overtook her in Haven, where soldiers and mages crowded so tight within its walls she could rarely catch a moment to herself. She did not think she’d mind under normal circumstances, but, well, normal died right along with the Divine. She grew increasingly self-conscious each time the word “herald” echoed behind her, but so too did she know she must appear as steel to these people: tempered, sharpened, willing to bend but not break. She refused to train among Cullen’s troops, lest they (or worse, Cassandra) find her penchant for cursing and muttering to herself unbecoming of Andraste’s chosen. Instead she began to take long, lonely walks outside the gates, down the path to the dock with a broken boat. She’d never seen mountains before the Conclave, but they reminded her somewhat of the weeks her clan spent beside the Waking Sea or the peace that settled over her heart when they’d found the Iron Bull on its southern shores along the Storm Coast. The world as it should be, save for the godsforsaken Breach that loomed above them all.

Her lungs still scraped raw when she drew breath, her lingering injury from Redcliffe unsuitable for the harsh, frozen air of the Frostbacks. But when she gripped her sword she could shut out all that happened to her, forget the mark that twinged on her palm, and lose herself in long, complicated cutting drills that she’d never employ in battle but whose discipline kept her ready for whatever came her way. Her breaths deepened as she moved, lungs slowly adjusting and strengthening, and she let her muscles become fluid as the snow crunched beneath her feet. She’d danced as a child, her clan particularly devoted to the arts, and while she had no illusions about the brutality of her chosen life she could imbue it with some grace, here alone beside the ice.

“We can bring one of the dummies down here, if you’d like.”

She turned, startled, to see Cassandra standing a few feet behind her, arms crossed and something like a smile lightening her stern features. Shohreh flushed, raising her sword in an instinctive salute.

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Hah.” Cassandra waived her arm with an impatient noise. “Some would say you’re the greatest bother in all of Thedas right now.”

Shohreh snorted, but she eyed the Seeker warily. Her greatest fear in allying with the mages had been losing Cassandra’s respect, and though she publicly supported her Shohreh did not know where the two stood personally, or if it even mattered at all.

“Commander Cullen has asked me to relay a formal request that you inform him the next time you go wandering outside the walls alone. Apparently he and Lady Montelyet worked themselves into a frenzy trying to find you.” 

Irritation flashed through her, though she made sure to tamp it down. She’d worry too, in their position. “And you’re not asking me yourself?”

Cassandra shrugged. “I understand the need for solitude. And I am not one to question another warrior’s ways. Though, if you wish to practice away from prying eyes, I am happy to train with you.”

Shohreh’s heart skipped a beat, and she met Cassandra’s gaze in an effort to determine if the offer was obligatory or genuine. “I think you’d find my skills lacking.”

“Come now,” Cassandra scoffed. “There is humility, and there is fishing for compliments. I’ve seen you fight.”

“And you’ve seen me fall.” But the moment the words left her she realized it was not true. _This_ Cassandra had not been the one to pull her to her feet after she’d caught a spell straight to the chest. This Cassandra did not stare at her with deadened eyes poisoned by red lyrium, her body flung against their foes so she and Dorian could erase the whole nightmare. Instead she remained healthy and whole, her brow now furrowed in confusion. 

“Forgive me,” Shohreh said. “In that...future, the one Dorian and I went to, we fought Alexius together. I underestimated him, left myself wide open and caught a blast to the heart. You kept him from killing me, made sure I was able to stand on my own two feet before you and Varric…” 

“Died?” Cassandra supplied helpfully. Shohreh snorted and nodded. 

“Half a lifetime of training, and none of it saved me that day.” Shohreh considered herself an honest assessor of her prowess in battle. She held herself as a perfectly serviceable hunter for Clan Lavellan, one their warleader respected and praised. But the fight with Alexius exploited all her weaknesses. If not for Cassandra, the one who now existed only in her memory, Shohreh would be dead.

“I have fought too many mages like Alexius,” Cassandra said, and there was something almost gentle in her tone. “Drunk on their own power. I imagine it is something the Dalish do not often encounter.”

“No indeed,” Shohreh muttered darkly. They were skirting dangerously close to her least favorite topic, one that would break through the veneer she’d so carefully maintained these past weeks. Vivienne had not called her naïve outright, but Shohreh almost wished she had, to put an honest shine on it. To call her a simple Elven girl from the woods with no knowledge of humans and their ways or the temptations of dangerous magic. Even the Bull had frowned upon the alliance, though at least he attributed her choice to her idealism rather than her culture. No one seemed to anchor it in her own wisdom, her own codes, ones that whispered to her that conscription reeked of slavery and that the Circles were not much better. Cassandra would point to Alexius as proof of the mage threat, but no nonmage could claim themselves immune from their own temptations, their own proclivities to violence when power presented itself. Her newfound station reminded her of that every day.

The thought made her want to hit something.

“You’re troubled,” Cassandra said.

“I’m always troubled.” Shohreh shot her a crooked smile. “You just haven’t known me long enough to realize it.”

“That makes two of us, then.” Cassandra smiled a second time, more rueful now, and she stepped forward to place her hand on Shohreh’s shoulder, her grip firm. She looked up at Cassandra in surprise, her sharp grey eyes full of the open honesty that led Shohreh to instinctively trust her captor, that day at the Temple.

“I meant what I said, earlier. You did well at Redcliffe. I do not have to agree with a choice to see its wisdom. I would not stand by you otherwise.”

Relief and gratitude made her weak in the knees, but Shohreh only grasped Cassandra’s arm in turn and held her left fist to her heart. “Thank you.”

Cassandra arched an eyebrow. “No jokes today?”

“I think Alexius snuffed out my sarcasm,” she said wryly. She’d played off the Herald’s role with quips and dry humor, the same way she handled all difficulties in her life, but somehow it was harder to do so alone with Cassandra. Something about her sincerity made it seem dishonest to not match her in kind.

“Well then. We’ll have to do something about regaining it.” Cassandra stepped back and drew her sword from its sheath, knees bent in a casual, perfect opening stance. “Attack, Herald.”

A smile tugged at her in spite of herself, and Shohreh drew her own blade, steel glinting against the sunlight. She held it in a low guard, eyeing Cassandra’s stance, and when the Seeker did not move she stepped forward with a thrust, one Cassandra easily blocked. She returned with an overhead cut that Shohreh sidestepped, snow dusting up between them as their blades clashed. They exchanged two more cuts before Shohreh stopped just short of Cassandra’s blade, the tip pointed directly at her neck while her sword strayed to the right of her body. She stepped back with a short nod, the pass conceded, and Cassandra tilted her head in approval.

“I hope I do not offend, but I did not expect an elf to wield a longsword.” Cassandra returned to a high guard, one Shohreh matched in a fit of pique. “I thought the Dalish preferred arrows and daggers.”

“Our enemies don’t,” she said as they circled each other. “And I had dreadful aim. Only few of us trained with it, enough to fend off mercenaries, but—it’s always fit. In a way I can’t explain.”

“I understand completely,” Cassandra said, and she lunged forward with a simple, brutal cut that would have driven Shohreh to the ground, had she not been ready for it. She parried and dodged, bringing her blade back around, but after another minute of blows she found herself once again staring down Cassandra’s sword, her lungs raw and heaving. She tapped her chest in concession and stepped back, resting her hands on her thighs to catch her breath.

“You may not believe it, but back home I’m considered halfway decent.”

“I believe it,” Cassandra said. “Commander Cullen could not last this long against me.”

Shohreh snorted. She doubted that, but would not mind seeing Cassandra take on the stiff Templar, or anyone else for that matter. She had never met another fighter with Cassandra’s skill, whose weapon truly acted as an extension of her body. She supposed if she met another Seeker, they’d be much the same, but the whole order seemed rather cracked. Not surprising, given what she’d heard of their harrowing vigil. Somehow it made sense to her that only Cassandra had passed through it with her moral compass intact.

Cassandra eyed her now, brows furrowed. “May I offer you advice?”

“Please.”

“You hesitate. Not so much that it would matter against most, but enough for me to see. Your instincts are right, but you track my blade too long. Trust yourself and act. You will see yourself improve.” 

Shohreh nodded, the words an echo of what her own trainers had told her a thousand times before. _Of course._ Old habits were somehow harder to break in a stranger’s lands.

She dropped back into a low guard, inhaling deeply as she forced her muscles to relax, her grip loose upon the sword. “Again?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Cassandra raised her blade to advance, and steel sang out when their blades met each other. Shohreh was tiring now, more quickly than she should have, but she pressed on, her thinking mind retreating as muscle memory and instinct surged, her eyes never leaving Cassandra as they wore the snow down to a packed, slick patch. 

Shohreh absorbed another heavy overhead blow from Cassandra, her arms trembling from the sheer force of the Seeker’s strength as she bore down upon her. They were so close now Shohreh could feel Cassandra’s breath warm upon her cheek, and she freed one arm to push her weight under Cassandra’s arm, forcing it up and off her hilt. Taken by surprise, Cassandra lost her left grip on the sword, her arm flung wide in a perfect opening. Shohreh turned, sword flipped, and bashed Cassandra directly in the chest with her pommel. She fell to the ground, a soft _whumf_ and the snow, and Shohreh advanced, the tip of her blade held just under Cassandra’s chin.

Cassandra’s eyes widened in surprise, her mouth hanging open as Shohreh stood panting above her. She froze, almost certain she’d crossed a line, but Cassandra began to laugh, her eyes crinkling in the most open expression of delight Shohreh had ever seen. “ _Excellent._ ”

***

She had not wept after Haven, too battered and drained to absorb the depth of their loss, nor when they reached Skyhold, so keenly aware of the people’s eyes on her. But somehow, the fight between Cassandra and Varric pushed her over the edge, their tempers and harsh words tightening a knot of panic that had wound itself within her after the Divine’s Hands ambushed her in the courtyard and named her Inquisitor. Her eyes pricked with tears as she followed Cassandra down to the main hall, and she quietly slipped through another doorway before the Seeker could realize she was gone.

Her vision blurred as she strode through the narrow passageways, but she managed to wait until she reached her unreasonably lavish quarters before she let the tears fall. She shut herself in a closet large enough to fit her bed, and collapsed to the floor, her body shaking as she sobbed. Despair and loneliness gripped her with such unbearable force she thought a mage spell had taken hold of her once more—she could not do this, not when the mark on her hand still throbbed every hour and everyone treated her more like a god than a woman.

She cried until she exhausted herself, groggy and dry-mouthed, and after splashing some water on her face she wandered out onto the ramparts, the last of the sun fading into the mountains. For a moment, she had half a mind to find that strange spirit boy, who at least seemed adept at articulating other people’s pain. But instinct brought her back northwest, and she found Hawke standing in the exact place she’d left her, arms crossed and looking out at the activity below. Shohreh hesitated, uncertain for a moment before the great hero of Kirkwall, before she shook her head and descended to the wall.

“Have they found quarters for you yet?”

Hawke turned at her voice, eyebrows raised in surprise, before she nodded. “Varric said he’d show me.”

“Good.” Shohreh stood awkwardly beside her, clasping her hands behind her back just so they wouldn’t dangle uselessly at her side. She supposed it was a good way to appear authoritative.

“I truly appreciate your help,” she said. “I know it can’t have been easy to come out of hiding, exposing yourself to the Chantry.”

Hawke shot her a crooked grin. “I got bored. You try sitting in Weisshaupt with no one but the Wardens for company. Awfully depressing.

“Still,” Shohreh said. “You could have left it. Said you’d already given enough to the world.”

Hawke glanced at her, her green eyes bright against the growing dark. “No, I couldn’t,” she said softly. “Same as you.”

Shohreh flushed. “I’m bound here, whether I like it or not. An anchor in all senses of the word.”

Hawke arched an eyebrow. “And you’re telling me you’d have turned tail and run, if you’d had the choice?”

Shohreh sighed. She’d asked herself that a dozen times in the past few hours, wondering if it wasn’t too late to cut off her own arm and find passage out of the mountains in disguise. But the option disgusted her every time she considered it seriously. When she pictured the refugees in the Hinterlands or the people who’d given their lives for her in Haven, she knew what she’d do no matter the circumstances.

“No. No, I wouldn’t have.”

Hawke nodded in satisfaction. They stood in silence, lanterns blinking on as darkness descended, and Shohreh could hear distant voices below. Raucous laughter floated up to them, and she thought she spotted Bull headed towards the newly repurposed tavern with the Chargers and Sera.

“Would you like to grab a drink?” Shohreh asked.

“Thanks, but I’m trying to lay low for now,” Hawke said. “Can’t imagine how many stares I’d attract in the tavern.”

“They put four casks of beer in my quarters.” 

“ _Oh,_ ” Hawke broke into a wide grin. “Well, in that case. We can’t be wasteful in wartime, can we?”

***

“Andraste’s tits,” Hawke proclaimed. “This whole room is bigger than my manor.”

“It’s all a bit much, isn’t it?” The room somehow looked smaller and more inviting in candlelight, but not by much. Shohreh led Hawke into the storage room that housed the casks, hunting around until she found two mugs. Hawke let out a low whistle at the sight of the four massive barrels, and took a frothing mug from Shohreh with a grateful nod.

“You’d think they expect your whole clan to drop on their doorstep.”

“No thank you.” Shohreh wrinkled her nose. Hawke laughed and sprawled onto the white couch near the stairwell, her legs stretched out. She raised her mug with another crooked smile.

“To your health, Inquisitor.”

“And yours, Champion.” Ale had never tasted as good to Shohreh, crisp and cold when she drank, the yeasty scent reminding her somewhat of home.

Hawke proved astonishingly easy to talk to, full of jokes about even the most harrowing trials she’d undergone. It proved a balm for Shohreh, who was beyond finished with the solemnity and rituals of the Inquisition, and by the time they began their third drink she was in her own element, filling Hawke in on some of the more absurd journeys she’d undertaken since waking up in Haven’s dungeon.

“So if you ever find yourself in the Fade and stumble across a confused-looking ram, do give it our regards. Dorian tried to give it a full Tevinter funeral before the quartermaster found out and confiscated the metals.”

“Ah, Maker.” Hawke wiped tears of mirth from her eyes and surveyed Shohreh. “So. Lady Shohreh Lavellan of the inglorious Inquisition. Have you found your emotional support human yet?” 

Shohreh snorted into her ale. “My what?”

“Emotional support human. Or dwarf, elf, Qunari if you’re really desperate. The person you can let your guard down around, who lets you be something other than a leader. Varric’s mine, so he’s taken, which is a shame for you. A damn good man, no matter what that Seeker tells you.”

“Oh, I believe it.” She liked Varric better than anyone she’d met on this godsforsaken campaign, except for Dorian and…well, Cassandra. Which didn’t exactly put her in the best position.

“Anyway, you’ll need that. The decisions you’ll be making, the number of people’s lives in your hands…you need to doubt them, grieve them with someone. You’ll break otherwise. Or become damnably ruthless, and the world doesn’t need that right now.”

“I certainly don’t,” Shohreh remarked, but her thoughts were too muddled by the beer she drank to think more deeply on who in Skyhold she could possibly turn to. Certainly she’d have to work at becoming less of a lightweight, if she wished it to be Dorian or the Iron Bull.

A knock sounded at the door, so faint she thought she imagined it, and she turned to see Cassandra ascending purposefully up the stairs that opened into the massive bedroom. She froze at the sight of Shohreh and Hawke half-draped across each other, her cheeks flushed with surprise or embarrassment. 

“Forgive me, Inquisitor—I did not intend to interrupt. I’ll leave you and Lady Hawke to…”

“No, I should be turning in for the night anyhow. Thanks for the drink, Your Worship.” Hawke smirked at her to soften the blow of the title, set her mug on an end table, and turned to Cassandra with a flourishing bow.

“A pleasure to finally meet you, Seeker. For the record, if all you wanted was my autograph, all you had to do was ask.”

Cassandra opened her mouth, dumbfounded, but Hawke swept down the stairs and out the door before she could gather herself. She stared down the steps, looking a little like she’d been clubbed on the head, before she shook herself and came to sit beside Shohreh.

“I suppose I deserved that.”

Shohreh shrugged, having no desire to discuss Hawke with Cassandra ever again. The ale still worked its way through her, rendering her pleasantly sleepy, and she tilted her head back against the couch, her neck cushioned by the plush velvet backing. 

“I wanted to ask how you were settling in,” Cassandra said dryly. “But the answer seems to be just fine.”

“Well enough. The ale helps.”

Cassandra chuckled. “Commander Cullen’s touch. I…apologize. I requested you be placed in smaller quarters, but Leliana and Josephine would not hear it. When you’re in the position you are, quoth Lady Montelyet, it becomes less about your own preferences and what perception requires.”

“She’s likely right.” Shohreh pinched the bridge of her nose. She was tired, and just shy of drunk, and she could not let Cassandra see her like this for much longer. They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity, her eyes growing heavy, and she wished fiercely that Hawke had stayed. She, at least, could understand a moment of vulnerability.

“Well, I’ll let you rest.” Cassandra stood awkwardly. “Come find me tomorrow, if you wish to resume our training sessions.”

“I’d like that,” Shohreh murmured, and a smile flitted briefly across Cassandra’s face before she nodded briskly and headed towards the stairwell. 

“Would you still trust me if I doubted?” she asked. Cassandra stopped and turned. Anxiety and shame churned in Shohreh’s gut, but she continued on. “If I hesitated behind closed doors, or could not bring myself to believe I am Andraste’s?”

Cassandra scoffed in disbelief. “Of course I would,” she said, and disappeared down the stairs.

***

The Iron Bull started coming by to watch their training sessions; Shohreh racked up multiple hits just from glancing back toward him in trepidation, wondering what he thought. But he never commented, and after a couple days he faded into the background, no different than anyone else who walked by in the early-morning hours.

“All right,” he said one morning. “I’ve seen enough. You two up for taking me on?”

Shohreh raised her eyebrows in surprise, while Cassandra crossed her arms in and racked a measuring gaze up and down the massive Qunari. “I’d think you’d be outmatched.”

Bull laughed. “A bluffer. I like it. I’ll be fine, Seeker—if I feel the cards are stacked, I can always wrangle Krem into the fray.”

Shohreh and Cassandra glanced at each other, barely suppressed eagerness behind Cassandra’s eyes and something feral stirring within Shohreh. “By your leave, Lady Pentaghast.”

Cassandra and Iron Bull exchanged grins, and the Bull fetched an enormous quarterstaff—more of a tree branch, really—to counter their blunted practice blades. Cassandra and Shohreh both saluted the Bull, he merely chuckled and advanced on them, staff raised high.

He moved remarkably quickly for someone so large; by the time Shohreh whacked away his staff he had already moved toward Cassandra, barreling into her shield. She pressed forward, and when Shohreh attacked from behind the Bull swung wide. She turned in an ungainly half-pirouette, dived into a roll to escape his thundering fist, and when she came up Cassandra stood by her side, blade raised and shield ready.

Melee battles were still a weak point for Shohreh; Dalish hunting was such a solitary affair she rarely had another comrade watching her back, or ones she needed to watch in turn. But something clicked when she fought beside Cassandra, having grown so familiar with her style these past weeks that she knew exactly where to cover her when she rushed toward Bull. He raised his staff to block her, and continued to fend blows off from them both with only the slightest amount of effort.

Cassandra locked eyes with Shohreh for only a second, just enough that she understood what the Seeker meant to do. Cassandra lunged forward, throwing herself headlong at Iron Bull, who only barely knocked Shohreh to the side before he bore down upon Cassandra, who’d hit him in full force with her shield. Shohreh dodged behind Bull and leapt upon his back, her hand finding purchase in his shoulder harness. She brought her blade up and around to tap his neck, just hard enough for him to concede the blow.

“Is this what you call riding the Bull?” she asked sweetly. Bull grunted and hurled himself forward with enough force to fling Shohreh off his back. She dropped her sword as she sailed through the air, curling herself into a ball to brace for impact. The landing still knocked the wind out of her, her side aching as she absorbed the blow, and she turned onto her back, gazing up at the sky for several moments before she could bring herself into a sitting position. Bull, meanwhile, seemed to have tripped over Cassandra in the action, sending them both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of armor and weaponry. 

They’d attracted quite an audience at this point, Dorian and Krem at the front of the crowd. Krem looked like he was ready to howl with laughter, while Dorian arched one eyebrow to render his perfect, stupid Tevinter face even more attractive.

“Impressive,” Dorian called. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sparring match where everyone loses.”

“No one made bets on that, did they?” Shohreh grinned. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“I’ll give this one to you two.” Bull winced as he held a hand to one shoulder, but he chuckled when he pulled Cassandra to her feet, who looked a bit dazed. “Hell of a fight in you, boss. Glad to see your teamwork improving.”

“Thanks,” Shohreh said, before she surveyed Cassandra with mild concern. She looked able to stand on her own, but her eyes still appeared unfocused. “You all right, Cassandra?”

“Perfectly fine.” Cassandra answered far too placidly. “Excellent thunking, Qunari.” 

Bull’s one good eyebrow rose. “Let’s get you to a healer, Seeker. Might have come down a bit too hard there.”

“I do not need a healer!” Cassandra protested, but she didn’t pull away when Shohreh draped her arm over her shoulder. Cassandra’s full weight fell upon her, her cheek pressed on the top of Shohreh’s head. She buckled a bit under the strain, tired enough from their bout that she gratefully accepted Bull’s help when he took her other arm.

“Your hair smells like wildflowers,” Cassandra proclaimed, and Shohreh flushed in equal parts embarrassment and worry. It had to have been a dreadful hit to the head for her to be commenting on such things.

They ducked around bystanders as they walked toward the healers’ quarters. Elan diagnosed a concussion and prescribed a foul-smelling potion and rest for the day. Bull could not hide having wrenched his shoulder in the tumble, earning them all a stern lecture about training safety. “Maker, it’s the professionals who are the worst,” Elan muttered, in a tone that reminded Shohreh painfully of Adan, before she sent them on their way.

Shohreh faced another, more brutal dressing down from Leliana after she put Cassandra to bed, one she imagined would return in her nightmares alongside Corypheus and his archdemon. She stayed in Cassandra’s quarters for the rest of the afternoon, partly to avoid any further disgruntled advisors and partly out of her own useless worry. Cassandra appeared softer when asleep, sunlight from the window obscuring the scar that ran across her cheek, and Shohreh reached a hand out to brush her cropped hair back from her forehead. Cassandra stirred lightly at her touch, muttering in her sleep, and Shohreh drew back as if burned, nails digging into her palms when she held her arm close to her sides.

She glanced balefully at the battered copy of _Swords and Shields_ that lay on the end table, and Shohreh picked it up, half out of curiosity and half just to quiet her cursed mind. The writing was atrocious, not nearly what she’d have expected from Varric, though her opinion revised slightly as they came to the first smut sequence. She became engrossed in spite of herself, cringing at the obvious tropes but unable to put the book down.

“What do you think?” A thick voice murmured from the bed. Shohreh looked up to see Cassandra levering herself into a sitting position. “Is it as dreadful as Dorian says?”

“Maybe not quite that bad,” Shohreh said with a smile. “The fight scenes are so unrealistic, though—I don’t know how you get through them!”

“We should invite Varric to our next exhibition,” Cassandra said dryly. Shohreh laughed, even as guilt washed over her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t nearly careful enough, I didn’t think—” 

“Do not apologize.” Cassandra shook her head, then winced and brought a hand to her head at the movement. “No lasting harm done. And this is war. We sacrifice for one another.”

An inexplicable chill ran through Shohreh at the words. “Please don’t sacrifice yourself for me, Cassandra.”

“I have no intention of it. Not unless need calls.”

“That’s not enough.” She could not put a name to the fear that fluttered through her. Shohreh drew in a trembling breath, making sure her words were measured before she spoke them. “It wouldn’t even be a sacrifice. I couldn’t possibly do this without you.”

“Nonsense,” Cassandra said, but her eyes softened when she met Shohreh’s gaze. She’d always been dreadful at hiding her emotions, no more so than now, and Cassandra gave a tiny nod.

“All right. No throwing myself on any swords meant for you. I promise,” she added with a knowing smile. “We will have to improve our field communication though, won’t we?”

Shohreh gave her a relieved smile. “I look forward to it.”

***

“You’re really rather terrible at this,” Dorian said. She’d fled to the library after giving Cassandra the new copy of _Swords and Shields_ , her face flaming from Varric’s shit-eating grin and Cassandra’s emotional reaction. “That was the perfect opportunity for you to declare your affections.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Shohreh suddenly became engrossed in finding a new title off the library shelves, and was dismayed to find that she’d happened to stop in front of the botany section.

“Darling, we must look out for each other in matters of the heart.” Dorian leaned casually forward so that he directly blocked her view of the next section. “Neither of you has been anything but obvious. Put some of that blasted recklessness of yours to good use.”

“Haven’t you learned, Dorian? I’m a coward in every sense. Besides, I don’t see you following up your cloying stares at Bull with your quite considerable charms.”

“Maker’s balls. All right, how about this. The first one of us to take someone to bed in this frozen fortress has to buy the other a new outfit. A _proper_ outfit. I imagine you’re sick of that vest as much as I’m sick of these.”

Shohreh sighed. It seemed the only way to get the matter dropped. “Done.”

***

There were times when she envied Cassandra for her piety, her unshakable faith in the Maker’s will and the righteousness of their mission. Shohreh had a whole pantheon of gods to choose from, and her devotion to them was nominal at best. Oh, she believed in the Creators, but until recently she’d had little reason to think they had any interest in interfering in the mortal world. Now she viewed them with a somewhat bitter tint, that they could not give her some sort of sign to supplement or counter all the coincidences that had made her Andraste’s herald. Indeed, it made her less likely to believe in them at all; to imagine the vallaslin on her face were tribute to a dying mythos, nothing more.

She did not know if she could bring herself to pray, but she knelt all the same in a quiet room with a broken mirror just next to the courtyard chapel. They would head to Adamant soon, to what chaos and death she could only guess, and she tried to clear her mind of all her fear, opening herself to the guidance of her people’s. It did absolutely nothing but make her more agitated, so she rested her forearms on the ground and pushed herself up into a headstand. As a child, her trainers had urged her into this pose every time she became too rambunctious; to this day, concentrating on keeping herself still and balanced seemed to be the only way to empty and refine herself to purpose. She closed her eyes and focused inward on her breath, her lungs expanding in a steady tempo in concert with the blood pounding in her head. 

The door behind her creaked on its hinges, and she opened her eyes to spy a pair of familiar boots standing in the threshold.

“Ah, fuck,” she said, and rightened herself. “I really shouldn’t do this outside my quarters, should I?”

“Everyone has learned their Inquisitor has quirks,” Cassandra said with some amusement. “It makes you more endearing to them.”

“Hah,” Shohreh snorted, and returned to a kneeling position, her palms resting on her thighs.

“They are waiting for you in the war room,” Cassandra said. “Cullen has mapped out a battle plan that gives us a decent chance.”

“I’ll be along in a moment. I just need to…” She trailed off, still unsure of what exactly she needed to do.

Cassandra’s brow furrowed in concern, and she came to kneel across from Shohreh. “There is no shame in fear, Shohreh. It would be a fool who lacks it in these times.”

“I know that,” Shohreh snapped, then ran a hand over her face in remorse. “I’m sorry. It’s conviction I lack, that I’ve always lacked. I can sit on that damned throne and render judgement without hesitation, but here? Alone?” She shuddered. “I know what it is to bring about death, but I could have saved more lives in Haven, at the watchtower. I could have saved those Wardens. It can’t be your Maker’s will, or anyone’s, that I be the one to make these choices.”

Cassandra stared at her, her expression unreadable. She reached out a hand, slowly, carefully, and brought her fingertips to Shohreh’s cheek. She shivered at her touch, and Cassandra traced gently over the tattoos on her face. “These are tribute to your gods, yes? I have never asked.”

“Vallaslin. Mine are to June, the god of craft. He who taught us to build bows and forge blades.” She smiled bitterly. “Who taught us how to kill.”

“Ah.” Cassandra’s hand lingered on her face a moment more, before she withdrew and knit her hands together in her lap.

“You’re supposed to meditate on the gods, when you receive the blood writing. I spent most of that time daydreaming.” Every day she drifted farther and farther from her people. She supposed Solas would be pleased, which was enough to make her want to build an aravel right in the courtyard of Skyhold.

“How do you do it?” she asked. “How do you _believe_ so easily? Forget the Maker, I’m practically a heretic in my own religion. I can’t believe in something unless I can see it, grasp it. And there is no doing that with the gods.”

Cassandra was silent for a long time.

“Faith is trust, Inquisitor, more than it is anything else. If you cannot trust the Maker or your gods, trust in yourself. Trust in me. Whether Andraste put you on this path or not, I believe you have the will to see us through this. And I do not give my faith lightly.”

Her eyes shone with the intensity Shohreh so admired about her, the blunt declaration of her intentions no matter what anyone else thought. An urge seized her to embrace the Seeker, to press their foreheads together and commit to something beyond this war, but she only took Cassandra’s hands between her own, her grip steady between her fingers. “You’ll be at my side, at the fortress?”

“Every moment.”

***

They fought bitterly after Adamant, tempers frayed from exhaustion and death and the lingering terrors of the Fade. Victory tasted bitter to Shohreh, with Stroud’s death behind her and public questioning of her decision from Cassandra and Vivienne both. The latter, at least, gave her a wide berth when they retreated to camp, but Cassandra found her nursing over a dozen bruises and a shallow slash to her forearm between the gaps of her armor.

“This is dangerous business, dealing with the Wardens. Surely you must see that.” 

“What happened to trusting me?” Shohreh muttered, winding a bandage around the cut on her arm so tightly it threatened to cut off circulation.

“It’s them I don’t trust.” Cassandra cast a contemptuous glance back in the direction of the fortress. “Given one glimpse of danger and you’ll find us awash in blood magic once more.”

“And we’d be safer with them in exile? Tevinter or Nevarra? This way we can keep an eye on them, manage the situation.”

Cassandra snorted. “One eye on the apostates and one eye on the Wardens. All the tools for an explosion greater than that at the Conclave.”

“We have to make do with what we’ve got. Or would you rather replace me with Hawke?” Shohreh flung her uninjured arm furiously toward the tent flap. “She hasn’t left yet. I’m sure she’s dying to serve a Seeker.”

Cassandra stalked out without another word. 

Shohreh found her back in Skyhold, writing an account of their ordeal and haunted by the spirit of Justinia. She tried to cross the gulf between them but could not find the words, and their conversation remained formal, stilted. Even in the field they grew out of sync, with Shohreh taking greater risks and falling back into her solo patterns. They still managed well enough but argued following every skirmish, Cassandra dissecting every detail in the aftermath. They returned to the Hinterlands to deal with some re-emerging Templars, a task that would have been less difficult had they not been stretched to their limits. Shohreh collapsed before the fire, exhausted and covered in blood, and groaned at the sight of Cassandra looming over her, her face set in its usual glower.

“I swear by the Maker, Lavellan, I am going to take that grappling chain from you if you do not retire it yourself.”

“I don’t see what the problem is!” Shohreh protested.

“Every time I am engaged with a foe, you yank them away before I can deliver the killing blow. It’s disruptive and unnecessary.”

“Sometimes I can see things you can’t,” Shohreh retorted, “and the chain usually finishes them off. You’re alive and unscathed, aren’t you?”

“That’s not the point! I’m perfectly capable of—"

“Would you two kindly—and I say this with all due deference—shut it?” Dorian threw himself on the ground, massaging his temples with both hands. “You’ve no idea the headache you cause.”

“I thought it was the barrier casting,” Cassandra said, but she did not argue with Shohreh any further. Inexplicably peeved, Shohreh sat beside Cole for the rest of the night, knowing Cassandra would not come anywhere near the kid. He seemed to be settling into himself since the events at Redcliffe, for which she was profoundly grateful. He still disturbed her slightly, but she had grown fond of him in spite of herself. At the very least, she could relate to the uncertainty of just exactly who one was, or how they might move forward.

She and Cassandra bickered for the rest of the journey home, minor things that did not matter, and Shohreh could not explain to herself why the Seeker’s more tactless edge now drove her to madness where she once found it charming. It could not entirely be attributed to Adamant, which was weeks ago now, and the knowing, exasperated looks from Dorian forced her to admit it might be something deeper, something she had no desire to interrogate. Either way, Shohreh was happy to see the back of her when they finally reached Skyhold.

They were greeted with the usual excitement upon their return to Skyhold, but Shohreh quickly retreated upstairs, afraid she would knock a couple of heads together if looked at the wrong way. The Bull all but barged into her quarters a couple hours later, extending an invitation to Herald’s Rest for a night of “intentional debauchery.” Shohreh protested, her foul mood still poisoning her intentions, but Bull stood firm. 

“Dorian says you need to let off steam,” was all he said, and Shohreh knew there was no getting out of it.

A hot bath melted away most of her irritation, and by the time she dressed, her favorite white scarf arranged artfully around her neck, she even found herself looking forward to the evening. She forgot to have fun too easily, and she counted herself grateful there were at least some members of the Inquisition who could remember it for her. For once, she let her long hair hang down her back, a half-braid pulling it back from her face, and she strode into the tavern with a spring in her step, already buoyed by the promise of winning at Wicked Grace.

“Our conquering hero returns.” Varric’s sardonic voice echoed through the tavern, the dwarf seated at a table beside Sera and Dorian. She shot him a shit-eating grin before she gave a little flourishing bow, more than ready to give into her more absurd tendencies. Varric already had a tankard ready for her when she joined them, and she gave a small nod of thanks before she drank deeply. She’d stopped drinking after the second week at Skyhold, unable to cope with hangovers and war room meetings, but she had a deal with Varric where he kept a special cask of nonalchoholic cider hidden beneath the bar, spelled so that no one would notice the difference. The taste of apples sweetened her tongue, crisp and clear, and she let out a contented sigh as she placed the tankard on the table with a _thunk_.

“Heard you and the Seeker were at each other’s throats again,” Sera exchanged a smirk with Dorian before she waggled her eyebrows at Shohreh.

“Oh, shut up,” Shohreh said, but she meant it to be good-natured. The sad part was she wished Cassandra would join them for nights like this, would be more willing to shed that stern exterior for the dry wit she knew the Seeker was capable of. But it could not be helped, and she wasn’t about to let wishing ruin her evening.

“The Chargers are here!” Krem’s booming voice preceded the thundering steps of his comrades, and after that, Shohreh rather lost the thread of the evening. Varric cleaned her out in Wicked Grace, which was to be expected, but since it was the Inquisition’s money it was only her pride that she lost. High on her own euphoria, she found herself reluctantly conceding that perhaps the Bull and Dorian had been right.

Somehow, the night ambled on to include an arm-wrestling contest, perfect for Shohreh’s latent competitiveness and exhibitionist tendencies. “I have no money left to bet,” she announced, “but I shall bestow a loving kiss upon anyone who is able to beat me.”

Varric snorted into his tankard, but Sera appeared skeptical. “Oh pish,” she said, “you’re all talk,” and she plopped herself onto the bench across from Shohreh, arm up and ready. In a perhaps unwise move, Shohreh carried on for more time than she needed before forcing Sera’s arm to the table, but she took it with good grace. “Still all talk,” she said, but she raised her mug to Shohreh before she conceded her seat to Dorian.

For someone with a quite admirable set of muscles Dorian had very little resistance, and Shohreh pinned his arm to the table with shocking ease. The Iron Bull came next, who pinned Shohreh down within three seconds. She thought this was doing quite well to herself, and she stood on her bench to kiss Bull smack on the lips to roaring cheers and applause from the tavern. A dim part of her wondered where on earth her propriety had gone, but she decided she did not care. If she found out, Vivienne could lecture her in the morning.

Krem lined up after his commander, and Shohreh lost again after a more protracted battle. Krem returned her kiss with a surprising amount of verve, to the hoots and whistles from the Chargers, and he grinned at her mischievously when they pulled away. Shohreh sat back down, impressed. She would maybe have to find him later, provided—she pushed the thought from her mind.

“Varric?” she asked, and Varric shrugged. “Your funeral,” he said, and when they clasped hands he pushed against her with an astonishing amount of strength, her muscles burning as she pushed back. They grappled for almost a full minute, sweat starting to bead at Shohreh’s brow, before she finally pushed him down to the table with a huge grunt of exertion, pumping her other fist into the air in triumph. Their companions all applauded Varric, newfound respect in both Dorian and Iron Bull’s eyes, and Varric settled back in his chair in satisfaction.

“What do you lot think I’ve been doing, lugging Bianca halfway across the world?” he asked. “You owe me a drink just for doubting me.”

“Gladly,” Dorian said and disappeared off to the bar. Shohreh looked around with another grin, exhausted but still exhilarated, and turned toward the Chargers’ table.

“Anyone else?

“How about our illustrious Seeker?” Varric asked, and Shohreh froze. Her head whipped around the tavern frantically, and her heart stopped when she saw Cassandra leaning back against the bar, a drink in hand and a scowl on her face. How long had she been standing there glowering?

“Absolutely not,” Cassandra snapped. “This is a foolish display, meant to do nothing but stoke egos.”

“And your ego is so far above the rest of ours?” Dorian turned toward Cassandra, a teasing smile upon his lips.

“I will say, for the thousandth time,” Cassandra answered slowly. “ _Nobody asked you_.” 

“Come on, Pentaghast,” Shohreh called out in spite of herself. “Don’t tell me you’d back down from a challenge.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise, and she strode toward their table with purpose. “No indeed,” she said, and pushed back her sleeve. Her lips curled back in the battle-honed smile Shohreh knew so well, and she returned her best “ _you’re toast”_ grin as she placed her elbow on the table once more. Shohreh clasped her hand—how many times had they done this, her callouses so familiar against her palm?—and waited until Varric called “begin” before she pushed against Cassandra. Their eyes locked, Cassandra’s grey eyes impassive and unrelenting, and Shohreh’s biceps burned in pain as they struggled. Her previous matches had worn her down, but sheer stubbornness would not allow her to falter under the Seeker’s strength, not when she had so much to prove to herself, to Cassandra, to all the Inquisition.

At last, Cassandra forced Shohreh’s arm down to the table against her final, feeble straining; she hit the wood with such force her shoulder wrenched from the pain. Cheers broke out around them, Cassandra folding her arms in satisfaction, and Shohreh rubbed her arm grudgingly, conceding the victory with a nod.

“Your terms are clear, Inquistior.” Dorian looked delighted. “A kiss bestowed upon anyone with the power to wrestle you into submission.”

 _Fuck_ , Shohreh thought. Cassandra looked like the halla they’d accidentally cornered in the Exalted Plains, startled and afraid, a look that mirrored Shohreh’s own tumbling emotions. They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, Shohreh’s heart hammering in her chest, her throat closed so tight she could not speak even if she wanted to.

“How about we just buy the Seeker a drink, eh?” Varric came to the rescue, draping his subtly muscular arm around Cassandra’s shoulders with a generalized wink at the onlookers. “You know how these religious types are.”

Dorian began to protest, but the Bull kicked him under the table, causing him to double over in a steady stream of cursing. “Drinks are on me,” Shohreh said hastily, and stood with such force she practically knocked her chair over in her eagerness to get to the bar. Cabot, thankfully, seemed to have studiously ignored the whole display, and Shohreh gave him a generous tip.

“Send these to the Seeker, please,” she said, and fled out the front door of the tavern. The night had grown cold, but her face flamed enough that she hardly noticed, her whole body trembling in flustered shame. She strode over to where the practice dummies stood, pacing back and forth in agitation. _Stupid_ , stupid, why had she allowed herself to get swept up in her own chaotic impulses…

“Inquisitor!” The expected voice called out, and Shohreh winced. Cassandra had not used her name for weeks. “Shohreh,” Cassandra amended, and her boots crunched softly on the grass. Shohreh drew in a deep breath and turned to face Cassandra, her face shadowed in the moonlight. She appeared as uncomfortable as Shohreh felt, yet determined all the same.

“Forgive me,” Shohreh said miserably. “I acted a fool, as you said.”

“We’re all fools,” Cassandra answered softly. “Did you not tell me that, once?”

She stepped forward until she was mere inches from Shohreh, her cheeks flushed and her hair more askew than normal. Shohreh took an instinctive step backward, but Cassandra caught her by the arm, keeping her close.

“I—” Cassandra’s cheeks grew pink, and she looked down at their hands. “Is this something you have wished? For us?”

“Not in front of half a tavern,” Shohreh murmured. Her breath left her in trembling exhalations, heat pooling in her stomach and her ears ringing. Her eyes filled with tears, sharpening her shame, and she bit down hard on her lip. She had never been good at this and had no way of knowing if she had set out to ruin everything.

“And here?” Cassandra asked, and Shohreh shook her head. 

“We are so different, you and I, for all we share as warriors.” Her voice shook. “I would not ask you to put up with my antics. Besides, you are my first lieutenant, the shield to my sword. I will not jeopardize that, not when there is so much at stake–”

Cassandra kissed her, winding a hand up through Shohreh’s hair as the other wrapped around the small of her back and pulled her close. The faintest scent of pomegranate reached Shohreh when she parted her lips, her scalp tingling as Cassandra gently raked her nails across the back of her head and down her neck. Her tongue flicked over Shohreh’s before retreating and the gentle pressure of her lips was _erotic_ , there was no other way to put it; Shohreh rose onto the balls of her feet so that she could better meet Cassandra’s embrace…

She inhaled sharply when they pulled apart, the cold sweeping in to batter her senses. She stared up at Cassandra in astonishment, who looked about as surprised as she felt. She raised a tentative, battle-scarred hand to cup Shohreh's cheek, her thumb glancing over where the vallaslin divided her lips. 

“Every love…comes with its own pains. Behind the courtship, the poetry and passion, there is always struggle. But I...I would begin that journey. With you. If you are agreeable to such a thing.”

Shohreh gaped, unable to quite believe what she was hearing.

“The Inquisitor, silent?” Cassandra’s lips twitched in mild amusement. “I believe that is a first.”

“Only you could accomplish it,” she said. “But, yes. Yes, I’m quite agreeable.”

“I’m glad,” Cassandra said, and Shohreh kissed her fiercely, giving in to everything she’d been unable to put into words. They would have plenty of time to talk in the days to come.


End file.
